


The Art of Losing

by Hexiva



Category: Legion (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Farouk Is A Francophile, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25620685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexiva/pseuds/Hexiva
Summary: On the run from Division Three, searching for Farouk's body, Oliver and Amahl have a moment of doubt.
Relationships: Oliver Bird/Amahl Farouk | Shadow King
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	The Art of Losing

The sun shines down on a French countryside and, from the battlements of a purloined castle, Oliver and his parasite look out over the hills. 

_ “Un bel endroit, non?” _ Farouk says. He is reclining on a sofa with Oliver in his arms, lazy and possessive. “I have always had a soft spot in my heart for France . . . These people know how to live.”

“Yes,” Oliver agrees. His hand comes up to where Farouk’s arm is draped over his chest, and he runs his thumb over it. “Travel always agreed with me . . . When you’re out on the road, you can leave your troubles behind.”

Farouk smiles. “I think you have left more than your troubles behind you, my friend,” he says. 

Oliver chuckles. “Yes . . . yes, maybe I did. You know what they say . . . there’s no place like home.”

“Are you the Wizard of Oz?” Farouk says, amused.

Oliver shuts his eyes, smiling. “Maybe I am. Who does that make you?”

“The Wicked Witch of the West, of course,” Farouk says, affecting shock that this wasn’t obvious. “Or is it the East? It’s been some time.”

“You’re the one with the memory,” Oliver says. And then, after a moment, he says, “Have you thought about it?”

“Thought about what?” Farouk asks. Oliver’s train of thought can be a little scattered, but Farouk doesn’t mind. It’s a lazy summer day, and Farouk thinks he has time to indulge his host’s eccentricities.

“Staying here,” Oliver says. “In France. Maybe in this castle. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

There’s a short silence from Farouk. Then he says, “We have a body to find, my friend.”

“You already have a body,” Oliver says. “Mine.”

Farouk chuckles. “Don’t you want to be free, my dear? I find people usually do . . . you wouldn’t believe the things people have done to escape me.”

“I don’t remember what it’s like to be free,” Oliver says, very quietly. Something in his tone must strike Farouk, because he looks down, studying Oliver’s face. Oliver looks back. He notices that Farouk’s eyes are a deep shade of brown, warmer and brighter than Oliver’s own.

“You have thought about it,” Oliver says.

Farouk looks away. “Yes,” he admits. 

Oliver looks where he’s looking, out over the hills. “I used to make dreams like this for myself . . . where I could walk in the world again. Feel the heat of the sun on my face again . . . Where I wasn’t alone. I think you must’ve had the same dreams . . . stuck in someone else’s head for thirty years.”

Farouk stiffens under Oliver. Oliver wonders, distantly, if he’s about to be punished, thrown into some living nightmare for the crime of offending the Shadow King. But all Farouk says is, “You are perceptive, my friend.”

“Isn’t this enough?” Oliver asks. “After all those years . . . isn’t this enough?”

Farouk laughs, soft and bitter. He drops into Farsi. _ “You only think it is,” _ he said,  _ “Because you have forgotten what it is like to be yourself.” _

“Forgetting isn’t so bad,” Oliver says. “Once you get used to it.”

_ “Peut-être,”  _ Farouk allows. “But memory is all I have, my friend. And I cannot let go that easily.”


End file.
